


Work Night

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi, PWP, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John persuade Molly to join them. That's it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> So a few months ago songlin posted a prompt on her tumblr - which now I can't find - asking for Sherlock and John charming Molly into a threesome, and even though this had never really interested me before, I suddenly had 2000 words written. Then someone else filled the prompt on the kinkmeme, and I set it to one side to get on with 'All We Ought to Ask'. But I looked at what I had last week and decided it was doable, and since I had a day off due to strike action, what better way to fill it than to write straight-up porn with no redeeming features whatsoever. 
> 
> This is also practice in writing sex scenes (not my strength so I'm a bit nervous about it) and writing from a female character's perspective. Total fantasy, takes place in a vague Sherlock/John space with no particular relationship to canonical events. Gifting it to songlin as thanks for the inspiration, and for generally being inspiring.

The first time Molly walked in on Sherlock and John kissing in the lab, she thought it was an accident. Not just a kiss, a proper snog: she only looked for a couple of seconds, taking in what she was seeing, before accidentally-on-purpose dropping her papers noisily and bending down to pick them up, hiding her blush. John had one hand clenched in Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock had definitely been gripping John’s arse, and their lower bodies had been glued together. If that kiss was a sign of what they got up to in the bedroom, then it was no wonder they’d spent the first four weeks after finally getting together with smug grins and bags under their eyes.

They’d split apart by the time she stood up, thankfully, back to their work, looking apologetic. And John obviously felt bad for making her feel like a gooseberry in her own lab, because he was unusually thoughtful for the next two weeks, coming in with chocolate muffins and offering to fetch lunch and remembering how she took her coffee.

The second time was a bit suspicious, because they’d only left Molly in the lab a few minutes ago and Sherlock knew she always went for lunch at 12:30. So stopping to basically hump one another in the corridor just outside her door at 12:32 seemed a little…odd. Even by Sherlock and John’s standards. Molly wouldn’t have put anything past Sherlock, but John seemed too English to be comfortable with sex in public, or with making his friends uncomfortable. And she was. Uncomfortable. And a friend of theirs. This time she pretended not to see them, went back in to the lab, and then sat there for 15 minutes, hungry. They had left by the time she ventured out again.

Maybe they had really been overcome by passion, Molly thought over the dispiriting tuna sandwich that had been the only one left, a little wistfully. But just outside the lab? They had been exchanging some heated glances over the test-tubes during that last discussion about the case, as per usual, but at least they could have found an empty room, or the men’s loos…. Oh God, what if that was where they’d gone? She blinked and shook her head to clear it.

The third time was when she knew something wasn’t right. She came out of the morgue late, tired, thinking about the long train ride home. Sherlock had been in to look at a body, and then flounced off somewhere, leaving Molly to tidy up and finish her paperwork. The corridor was dim, most of the lights off, but with enough light filtering in for her to clearly see Sherlock and John, just a few metres away – Sherlock had his coat off, lying in a puddle on the floor, and John pushed up against the wall, caged in, and they were kissing slowly, luxuriously. Sherlock’s hips jerked, a little, as Molly watched, frozen.

She coughed, politely. But John and Sherlock didn’t spring apart, mortified. Their mouths separated, and they looked at each other for a moment, communicating. And then they both looked at Molly. Molly’s mouth fell open a little, and she clutched her bag closer to her. Sherlock’s mouth was red and wet, his chest was rising and falling faster than usual, he looked wrecked – and he was gazing at Molly in a way that he’d only ever gazed at her in some very embarrassing dreams that she tried never to think of. And John – John didn’t look self-conscious or apologetic, he looked turned on and very slightly amused. Molly’s gaze was caught by a movement and she glanced down before she could stop herself, to where John’s hand was splayed on Sherlock’s crotch, caressing. Sherlock made a small hissing sound and Molly wrenched her eyes away, horrified. John winked at her.

Molly felt a blush spreading over her face. “Umm,” she said. “Sorry – forgot something, I have to – ” and she fled back into the morgue. There was, unfortunately, nothing there for her to have forgotten, just polished steel and emptiness. She set down her bag on the table, fingers trembling slightly. She was half-expecting them to come in after her, to apologize or explain or….something. But the morgue stayed quiet.

“Today was weird,” said Molly on the phone to her sister that night, lying on the sofa with a glass of wine.

“Weird?” said Clare. “Weird, how? Hang on, one of the kids is up.” There was an interval of Clare speaking sternly and Molly’s nephew whinging, and then Jamie came on the phone to shout “Hi, Auntie Molly!”

“Hi!” said Molly. “Isn’t it your bed time, Jamie?”

“Yes it is,” said Clare loudly, having taken the phone back. “Back to bed. Chris!” she shouted. “Jamie’s up, can you settle him? I’m on the phone. Right, so what was weird?”

“Well, you know Sherlock and John, his boyfriend?” Clare made an assenting noise. “So this evening they were practically shagging each other in the corridor, right outside my door.”

“Oh my God,” said Clare. “Sherlock Holmes? The really hot one? Did you _watch_? Tell me you took photos.”

“No!” said Molly. “They’re my friends, of course not. But the thing is, I think, umm, that they were doing it on purpose. Like, when I came out of the room, they were waiting for me or something.”

“No way!” said Clare. “Kinky.” She sounded approving. “Shit, I can’t believe how boring my life is compared to yours. What do you reckon, do they want you to watch them, you know, actually shagging?”

“Clare!” said Molly, half-laughing.

“Or maybe they want you to _join in_.”

Molly choked on a mouthful of wine. “You’re perverted.”

“I don’t want to hear any more about your wild single life in London, it’s making me depressed,” said Clare. “Tell me it was hot, though.”

“Oh God,” said Molly. “Yes, OK, it was incredibly hot, alright?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” said Clare. There was a wailing noise in the background. “Oh hell, Anna’s woken up. Tell me more tomorrow? And if you see any more of your fit gay friends getting off with each other, photos. You could flog them to the tabloids and go on holiday.”

Molly rolled her eyes, laughing. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Hope you get Anna back to sleep.”

“Later,” said Clare, and hung up.

**

The next day, Thursday, Molly approached the lab with some hesitation. Unless Sherlock had obtained a more exciting case since last night, he’d almost certainly be in that morning, since he’d left a complex set of experiments set up in one corner. Sure enough, as she got to the door, which was a little ajar, she heard voices.

“‘Subtle’ isn’t working.” That was Sherlock. “We should try the direct approach, as I said.”

“That was hardly subtle, Sherlock,” John said reprovingly. “Maybe we should just forget about this.”

“It was your idea. And I still believe we have a strong chance of success. If you’ll just leave things to me – ”

“Fine, whatever,” said John. “Though for the record, I am the experienced one here, you know. When you crash and burn, I’ll be happy to say that I told you so.”

Molly heard a door open somewhere behind her and hastily entered the room, before she got caught eavesdropping. John and Sherlock, standing either side of the bench, both turned to look at her. She felt her cheeks heat.

“Molly!” said John. “I was just – “ his eyes flicked to Sherlock – “making a coffee run. Can I get you something?”

“Oh, no, no thanks, I just, emm, I had a latte on the train,” said Molly, taking off her coat and turning her back on them to hang it up. “Get a grip,” she told herself, firmly. “Act normal.”

“Ok,” said John agreeably, and he headed out. Molly had a moment of panic as she heard him leave. Not that she wanted to talk to either of them – or both of them, especially not both of them – about the previous evening, but of the two, Sherlock would be brutally uncompromising whereas John would at least pretend he didn’t notice she was dying of embarrassment. She fiddled around in her bag to give herself a minute, but eventually she had to turn round. She had some emails to send, she’d start there.

She’d only just switched the computer on, purposefully avoiding even looking in Sherlock’s direction, when she heard him clear his throat. When she looked up, involuntarily, he had abandoned his experiment and was sitting, swinging his legs, on the other bench, across from her.

“Molly,” he said. “About what you saw last night. Questions?”

“What? No, I, it’s fine. We don’t need to talk about it.” Molly blinked at her screen.

“We have a proposition for you,” said Sherlock.

Molly looked up at the “We” and Sherlock’s gaze held hers, pinned. He smiled. Like a shark, Molly thought.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Nothing illegal, nothing dangerous. It’s just – “ he heaved a sigh, which Molly strongly suspected was fake, and then looked down at her, lowering his lashes. “John likes women, you know.”

“Oh,” said Molly, creasing her brow. She hadn’t been expecting a – a relationship discussion, but if Sherlock needed to talk about something…

“I’m not _concerned_ about it,” said Sherlock, with the arrogance of a man who knew no-one involved with him could possibly prefer someone else. “I’m _interested_. I want to know everything about John. I dislike the thought that – Well. I want to see him, with a woman.”

Molly blinked. She had an unnerving sense of where this was going, but she really hoped she was wrong. Clare would be thrilled, she thought.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, scanning her. “Exactly what you’re thinking. We discussed it, you see. Did you know that John’s always found you attractive? And it has to be someone we can trust, for obvious reasons.”

Molly was glad that she was sitting down. She looked Sherlock over carefully. He seemed to be sincere, but he was a very good actor.

“Are you winding me up?” she said, and heard a slight tremble in her voice. “Because that wouldn’t be – that would be unkind.”

“Practical jokes are for the puerile,” said Sherlock. “I’m…asking you politely.”

“To, umm. To shag - have sex with John?” said Molly, not quite believing that the words were coming out of her mouth. “But wouldn’t you be – jealous?”

Sherlock sighed again, as though Molly were being deliberately obtuse.

“To have sex with both of us,” he said. “Though my level of involvement may be negligible, I can’t tell. I would be present throughout though, of course.” He frowned, thinking, then looked back at Molly. “Well?”

“I –“ said Molly, “I can’t – ” and the door swung open as John came back in.

“Shut for stocktaking,” he said, resigned, then took in the looks on their faces.

“Oh shit, you did it.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “And she was going to say yes, before you came back.”

John looked at Molly, apologetic. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I’m sure Sherlock has totally ballsed this up but – look, if you were up for it, that would be amazing, it would really mean a lot to – to both of us. There’s no-one else, you know, you’re the only person Sherlock was prepared to – emm.”

“Oh,” said Molly, blankly.

“John’s extremely good at sex,” Sherlock put in. “Extremely. And I imagine he might be even better with women, given his more extensive experience.” His voice was indecently low.

“Shut up,” said John, but without malice. He came round to where Molly was and pulled over a chair to sit beside her. Sherlock slid lightly off his perch, and came round to lean on the bench beside them, touching John’s shoulder in passing as he did.

“Look, I apologise for the last few weeks, all the snogging and so forth. We thought you might be a bit intrigued, by it, and you might work it out yourself. The thing is, Molly, of course you’ll probably say no, but you are gorgeous, and I reckoned – we reckoned – that you’re a friend already: it wouldn’t have to be a big deal, just one night and we could forget all about it afterward if you wanted, it wouldn’t be awkward. I’d – you can trust me, you know that. I’d take care of you.”

Molly met John’s blue eyes, which had always seemed friendly and guileless. Relatively speaking. He looked like he meant it. Something about his posture, the set of his head, was different than in casual conversation, deliberate, confident and knowing. She knew John as charming and diffident, focus always, always, centred on Sherlock. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been in a room with John on his own for more than a few minutes, even, and with her own focus also on Sherlock she’d only registered him as not unattractive, she’d never really _thought_ about it, thought about him, as a prospect. But now, now she saw it, as though a switch had flicked on, or the heating turned up. For Sherlock to describe someone as ‘extremely good’ at something, at anything…

John and Sherlock were too close to her, too close to each other. Her mouth was dry, her heart racing. This isn’t happening, she thought. She wet her lips, and John’s eyes tracked the movement. He breathed out.

“Can I kiss you?” he said. “Just – ” and he leant forward, slowly, giving Molly time to move away if she wanted, and then brushed his lips across hers, cautiously.

Molly shivered. She was blazingly aware of Sherlock looking at them, at her. She ought to back away, she thought, this was mad, they were mad, it must all be part of one of Sherlock’s insane experiments…but John’s mouth was on hers again, tongue flicking out, and she found herself parting her lips and letting him in. Kissing, she was kissing John Watson in the lab at 9am on a Thursday morning, John who was Sherlock’s boyfriend, and – John was very good at this, he kissed with intent and promise and unassuming skill, and it had been a long time, and Molly closed her eyes for a minute or maybe two and let that promise slide down her spine, throbbing between her legs. Then John pulled away, she opened her eyes and flushed, awkward and aroused.

Sherlock made a sound, she looked up, and her cheeks heated further. Sherlock’s eyes were bright, _interested_ , his hands were gripping the bench, his body angled towards them, and his gaze flicked between Molly’s mouth and John’s.

“Mmm, lovely,” said John. “God, Molly, the things I’d like to do to you. I haven’t been with a woman since – “ He glanced up at Sherlock, wry.

“Do them here, now,” said Sherlock.

Molly heard herself gasp, a quick intake of breath, and John laid a hand on her knee, reassuring.

“Molly has to work,” he said. “We’re distracting her. And so do you, Greg wants to know what you’ve got by the end of today.”

Sherlock snorted. “Cold case,” he said dismissively. “Dull. And I already have the results, I was dragging it out so that…” He smiled at Molly, a wolfish smile.

“Molly hasn’t agreed to anything,” said John.

“Mmm,” said Sherlock. “She will, though. And this is already more interesting than I had anticipated.” He pulled himself up on the lab bench and leaned backwards, resting on his elbows, head tipped back, shirt stretched tight over his chest and dark curls tumbling.

“You could fuck me here, then, for now, John. Molly might like to watch.”

“Stop being such a poser,” said John, warning but affectionate. He stood up, between Sherlock’s legs, and bent forward to kiss him – not the way he’d kissed Molly, coaxing and careful, but hard and bruising. Sherlock’s hand came up to grip the back of his neck, holding him there. When John broke away, after the longest thirty seconds or so of Molly’s life, Sherlock moaned, an actual moan. Molly had never in a million years thought she would hear the noise that Sherlock Holmes made during sex, and yet here he was, fully dressed but managing to look as though he was about a minute away from being naked on her lab bench.

“Later,” said John, standing up and stepping back a pace, and Sherlock made a face of frustration at him, struggling up to sitting. Molly wrenched her eyes away from his crotch.

“You’re going to take the results to Greg and discuss them civilly, I’m going to look up a few things here and then have a long lunch with Mike, and then once Molly’s off work I’ll take her to the pub and we can have a chat _without_ your assistance.”

“Not as though we haven’t done it here before,” said Sherlock, sotto voce but pitched so that Molly could just hear him.

“ _Sherlock_. Come on, we’re leaving right now.” He took Sherlock’s arm and tugged, and Sherlock slid off the bench, scowling. “Molly, I’m sorry about him, just – can I see you outside at 5? At the very least, I owe you a drink after this whole, umm,  conversation.”

Molly swallowed. “Five, I – yes, that would be – but –“

“Great, I’ll see you then,” said John, and he towed Sherlock after him, protesting, out of the door. 

As the door swung shut behind them, Molly laid her head on her desk. Her lips were still tingling, and there was an insistent pulse between her legs: she could taste John, tea and something indefinable. Oh God, she had to email him and cancel, he’d understand, this was – this was completely ridiculous, things like this _never_ happened to people like her. She sat up, opened her email, hit ‘new message’ and entered John’s address. Then her fingers paused over the keys. Her phone pinged and, relieved, she went to fetch it from her bag.

“One-time offer. John says you aren’t brave enough to take it. I believe otherwise. Prove me right – SH”

Molly was still staring at it when the next message came in.

“I’ve never had sex with a woman before, by the way. That could change – SH”

Molly set the phone down beside her computer, very carefully. She deleted her email to John, and answered six work emails in a row. Then she looked at the phone again. It still said what she’d thought it said. She contemplated texting Clare: “You’d never believe what just happened!” But even if Sherlock and John hadn’t said any of this was private, it _felt_ private. Anyway, she knew what Clare would say. At least it will make a good story, Moll, she’d say.

Molly read Sherlock’s message again. She’d thought that she’d grown out of wanting Sherlock, congratulated herself on getting over the stupid crush. But the way he had looked, earlier. Maybe not so much. She pictured herself going home tonight, eating alone, watching TV with a purring cat on her lap and having an early night. Then she pictured herself in a pub, a few years, a few decades on, maybe with her niece or nephew all grown-up, imparting worldly wisdom. “Sure, I had a threesome once,” she’d say. “With a gay couple I know.”

Maybe it will be terrible, she thought. Maybe it will be hideously embarrassing and I’ll regret it forever. But if I don’t do it, I won’t _know_.

She looked at Sherlock’s message again, typed “Yes”, thought about a smiley face and then rethought instantly, and hit send.

***

John was there when she left the building at 5, leaning casually against the wall.

“Hey,” he said. “Ready for a drink?” He smiled at her, assessing and flirtatious, and Molly felt a small lurch in her stomach; nerves and anticipation.

She wasn’t sure what to say, but John kept the small-talk flowing, asking about her day, telling her what had happened at the Yard, about the gossip Mike had passed on about colleagues, until she relaxed and joined in. It wasn’t until they were at a table in the crowded bar and she’d had a couple of mouthfuls of wine that he fell quiet, watching her over his pint.

“So,” he said, setting it down. “Sherlock mentioned you’d texted him.”

Molly swallowed. She fiddled with her wine-glass, watching the drops of condensation slide down the side.

“Molly,” said John. “You can ask me anything you like. I don’t know, you might have questions or something.”

Molly tucked her hair behind her ears. “I suppose I just – I’m not sure what’s really going on here, I mean, why you would want to –  ” She took a fortifying gulp of wine.

“It’s not an experiment or a game or anything,” said John. “Sherlock just – he, umm, likes the idea of watching. Umm, I don’t know how much detail you want here but he’s – he’s very into the idea of seeing me f- have sex with a woman. He said before we were together he used to, you know, overhear me and a girlfriend sometimes – ”

“OK,” said Molly hastily.

John shrugged and half-smiled at her, rueful.

“That’s it, honestly. He asked, I didn’t say no. But neither of us are keen on the idea of letting a stranger in, especially since the tabloids love Sherlock. And he’s – he does trust you, Molly. We both do. I know he hasn’t always been very nice to you, but – “

“But Sherlock’s not nice,” said Molly, and was gratified when John laughed, surprised.

“No,” he said, raising his eyebrows at her, and then leant forward, confidential, lowering his tone. “But he makes up for it in bed. He’s good at everything, and I mean, _really_ good.”

Molly swallowed again. “Funny,” she said as lightly as she could. “That’s just what he said about you.”

“Yeah? Well then. Who am I to argue with the great Sherlock Holmes? Finish your wine, come home with me, and you can make up your own mind. We can see how it goes, and if anyone’s uncomfortable and it’s not working out, not a problem, we’ll order takeout and watch TV instead, how’s that for an offer?”

“Now?” said Molly. “But I haven’t even – ”

“No time like the present,” said John. Molly gulped. She lifted her glass and drank the remainder in a couple of large swallows. It helped: she hadn’t eaten much lunch, and the wine sent a rush to her head. She took a couple of deep breaths. After all, if she waited she would definitely chicken out.

“Nothing, emm.” She couldn’t think of a polite way to put it. “Nothing really kinky, right?”

“Whatever you’re into,” said John. “I mean – “ Molly was surprised to see that he too was blushing a little, the tips of his ears pink, “Sherlock - we’re – fairly, umm, adaptable as far as – all that – goes, but I was thinking that probably it would be best to keep things pretty straightforward.”

Molly fiddled with her hair a moment. All _what_ , she thought. She tucked that away to consider later, or she’d never stop blushing.

“OK,” she said. “OK, yes. Let’s go, then.”

“Right,” said John, approving, draining his own glass and standing up.

They said little on the cab ride back to Baker St. John didn’t try to kiss her, or even touch her, though he was sitting close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. He looked out of the window, seemingly lost in thought. When they pulled up, he paid for the cab, and held the door for Molly to climb out ungracefully after him. She looked at the door to 221, shivering a little.

“Molly,” said John, hesitating in front of it, keys in his hand, and she was suddenly positive he was about to call it off, that he’d realised that he’d made this proposition to her, to Molly Hooper. She braced for humiliation, ready to laugh it off.

“Look, if Sherlock – I don’t want him to feel – I know I said, but he doesn’t have much experience with women so if you could maybe…”  He grimaced.

This was so much the opposite of what Molly was expecting that she couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response.

“I won’t, umm…” she said.

“Good, that’s good. I mean, I knew you wouldn’t, but – “

“OK,” said Molly.

John exhaled. “OK. And I meant to tell you, you know, we’ve both been tested for every disease in the book after that nutcase bit Sherlock _and_ me last month, so we’re clean, no worries there.”

“Oh,” said Molly. “I’m, er, me too. Not that anyone bit me, I mean, um. And I’m on the pill.” It was wildly implausible that she was having this conversation with John Watson, in the street. But John smiled at her as though everything made perfect sense and held the door open, and she had no choice but to lead the way upstairs.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, legs curled under him, feet bare, frowning at a book, but when the door opened he looked up, set it down to one side, and uncoiled himself. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and his top two buttons were undone. The room was dimly lit and felt much warmer and tidier than Molly had seen it before, and there was classical music playing quietly in the background.

“Setting the scene?” said John, hanging up his coat and helping Molly out of hers. He sounded both sardonic and amused.

“You’re always telling me to clean up the living room and turn up the heating. So I did.” He stood up. “Molly.”

Molly shifted a little. She was afraid to open her mouth in case she started babbling something inane, she could feel the urge to say something, anything.  Her stomach was in knots. Sherlock looked as glamorous as he always did, and here she was in her most boring work trousers and sensible shoes, in her third-best bra and some pants that didn’t match; she hadn’t even washed her hair or done her eyes or put on lipstick, and she probably smelt of chemicals and antiseptic…

Sherlock walked over and Molly, nervous, took a half step backwards, which was not what she’d meant to do, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at her but at John. He reached out and pulled John in, easy, one hand on his arm, and then bent his head fluidly to kiss him. Molly wasn’t sure what to do, so she just…watched. She’d been given permission to watch, she realised after a moment, unlike those other occasions.

“Yes,” said John after a few moments, as though they’d been talking instead of snogging.

They both turned to Molly, and she had such a strong sense of déjà vu from the scene the day before that she giggled involuntarily, and then winced with embarrassment.

John smiled at her. Sherlock had one arm round his waist, hand stroking his hip, proprietorial. “Come here,” John said, holding out his other hand.

Molly took it and stepped forward, biting her lip. John pulled her in, Sherlock stepping back a little to make room. Molly’s skin prickled with the sense of him behind her.  John pulled the elastic from her ponytail and her hair fell loose. He stroked it off her cheek.

“I can’t wait to snog you again,” he said. “OK?”

“Yes,” said Molly, more high-pitched than she’d meant, and John leant in.

Molly could tell that John was trying to relax her, kissing her softly, but she was too anxious, her mind racing ahead to whatever was going to happen next, and her back tense with the sense of Sherlock’s presence. John broke off and glanced over her shoulder, and then gently turned Molly round to face Sherlock, putting his arms around her. Molly swallowed, stiff.

“It’s OK,” said John in her ear. “You don’t have to be worried. Trust us. I’ve got you. Close your eyes.”

Molly met Sherlock’s eyes and he smiled at her, though not in a very reassuring way. She thought again about calling the whole thing off and fleeing. But she’d said she would be brave: she wasn’t trying. She closed her eyes obediently and relaxed into John’s hold. It was nice; he was warm and solid against her, and in her flat shoes, he was just at the right height. He kissed below her ear and she took a breath, her eyes fluttering open. Sherlock shifted forward until there was only the smallest amount of space between them, and then he traced Molly’s cheek with a cool finger and bent down, a long way, to kiss her.

Sherlock kissed like John, Molly thought, which was a good thing and made her wonder distantly if that was how he’d learned to kiss, and also as if he was curious, trying things out. He was almost careful at first, letting his lips brush against Molly’s until she craned up to reach him better, putting her arms cautiously round him, and then the tip of his tongue touched hers and she shuddered a little, and Sherlock crowded in close, pressing her back into John, tilted his head for a better angle and kissed her more deeply, hungrily.

Molly stood on her tiptoes and tried to keep up, while John bit at her shoulder, and then untucked her blouse from her trousers and started to unbutton it from the bottom, skilfully. Molly shivered, sucking in her stomach, and broke off for a breath, as John’s hands moved up to cup her breasts through her bra. She had imagined snogging Sherlock, but never like this, never with John there, and with the confidence that they were heading towards sex. And those imaginings had stopped a long time ago. After John arrived, with Sherlock’s interest in him so obvious, she’d been a little ashamed of her thoughts about someone who now seemed so obviously gay

Her cheeks were hot. Sherlock covered her mouth with his again and she closed her eyes, hearing herself gasp as John gently flicked her nipples and Sherlock licked into her mouth, more assured. She was still tense, but now the tension was edging towards desire, pulsing between her legs. John shifted behind her and she could feel the line of his erection pressing against her; she pushed back against it and reached a hand back to try to pull him in, and he huffed out a breath against her neck. He let go of her right breast and unhooked her bra one-handed; Sherlock broke off their kiss, and pulled her shirt off her shoulders as John slid her bra off. Molly shivered, exposed.  John pressed into her and groaned, cupping her breasts from behind and teasing her again. Sherlock had stepped back a little and was watching with seeming fascination. John ran his right hand downward, resting it between Molly’s legs, rubbing his thumb gently and maddeningly over the seam of her trousers, and she made a noise, trying to push into it.

“God,” said John. “Sherlock, sit on the sofa.”

Sherlock’s eyes lifted from watching the motion of John’s hand, and he licked his lips and nodded.

John kissed Molly’s shoulder, unfastened her trousers, then shoved at them until she helped him push them down, stepping out of her shoes and pulling off her socks, clumsy. John distracted her by running his hands down her legs and she almost overbalanced, legs weakened.

“I haven’t, umm, shaved my legs,” she said. The room was dimly lit but she still felt self-conscious, wearing only her boring black M&S pants in front of Sherlock’s gaze. It was discomfiting, having him see her like this, but it also made heat coil in her belly.

John huffed out a laugh. “Believe me, I couldn’t care less. You’re bloody gorgeous. Come on.” He took her hand and led her over to the sofa.

“Sherlock, scoot back. Molly, if you sit between his legs…”

Molly did, a little gingerly. The sofa was chilly under her. Then John knelt on the floor in front of them, running his hands up the inside of her thighs, and her mouth went a bit dry. John’s clever hands brushed between her legs again.

“Move back a little, that’s it. Can I take these off?” He looked up at her, and grinned, unexpectedly. Molly took a deep breath and tried to smile back.

“Yeah, yes,” she said, wavering a little. John looked over her shoulder. He raised one eyebrow.

“OK?” he said.

Sherlock made an assenting noise, and John hooked his thumbs in Molly’s pants and pulled them down and off. Molly shivered again, with embarrassment. She was naked, and John and Sherlock were both still dressed; she was in between them like some kind of…

Then John gently parted her thighs, bent his mouth and breathed on her, and her train of thought derailed spectacularly.

“Lean back,” he said. “Sherlock will hold you,” and Molly, shaking a little, did. Sherlock’s chest was warm behind her, the buttons of his shirt scraping her back. He held her loosely, one hand running almost absently over her side. John shifted her legs further apart, and spread her open with one hand, gently curling his fingers against her where she most wanted them. Molly realised with a flush of desire, that this was all so that Sherlock could see, could watch. She closed her eyes tightly, and felt John’s tongue on her, and heard herself make a soft noise. Sherlock was _watching_ , his hands were on her hip, holding her in place, and tight on her side, and as John did something skilful with his tongue that made her hips stutter forwards and sent a spike of pleasure through her, she gave in and let herself fall into it, her head back against Sherlock’s chest.

Molly had had men go down on her before, of course, and had mostly enjoyed it, but it had been a while – a long while, really. And that had generally been in a bed, under the covers, a brief prelude to the main event. She’d never done anything quite like this before. What part of her brain was still working noted that John really was very good at this. He teased her, with short licks and stabs of his tongue, and she couldn’t stop herself from making noise, from trying to thrust into his mouth. She was so _wet_ , and Sherlock could see, could probably smell… Oh, God. John hummed against her and her breath stuttered; he slid one finger, then two fingers inside her, pressing and crooking gently, and noises were breaking from her, her legs shaking.

She was vaguely aware of Sherlock breathing hard beside her, and needing something to hold on to, she reached for and clutched at one of his hands, holding it hard. Sherlock made a sound, fingers curling round hers and holding, and his other hand slid up to cup her left breast, fingers tapping gently at her nipple. Then John’s mouth moved upwards and finally, finally, he was sucking at her clitoris, lightly and then harder. The muscles in Molly’s stomach strained, all of her strained into John’s mouth, Sherlock’s movements a maddening counterpoint. There was one moment, two, where she thought she wouldn’t make it, couldn’t quite reach what she wanted, and then she was there, tipping over the edge and pulsing helplessly into John’s mouth.

John sat up a little, gentling her with one hand as she trembled with aftershocks. Molly felt hot all over; astonished at herself. She was still tightly holding Sherlock’s hand, and on impulse, rather than dropping it, she raised it to her mouth and sucked at his fingers.

“Fuck,” said Sherlock, very clearly, behind her, and he shifted so that Molly could feel that he was hard: that was Sherlock’s cock pressing into her, oh God, she was naked and lying in his lap. John was watching her mouth, his eyes dark.

“Right,” he said, rough, and stood up, undressing rapidly and efficiently. Molly released Sherlock’s fingers, thinking of sitting up, of saying something, pulling herself together: but Sherlock trailed his hand down her chest and stomach and then gently over her swollen flesh and she jerked, involuntarily, once and then again.

“Here?” said Sherlock, and his fingers very lightly circled and pressed at her clitoris.

Oh,” said Molly, “oh, I – “

“Not too much,” said Sherlock. It wasn’t a question.

“Advantage of shagging women,” said John. He was down to his boxers, his cock outlined by them. Molly couldn’t concentrate, her focus narrowed to the uneven rhythms that Sherlock was setting, stroking her with just the tips of his fingers, but she watched as John pulled his boxers down, entirely comfortable with Molly and Sherlock’s gaze, and let his cock spring free, stroking it once or twice and biting his lip.

“What do you want, Molly?” said Sherlock in her ear. “Will you fuck John?

“God. Yes, I mean if you – ”

“I still want to watch,” said Sherlock.

“Bed?” said John. “Or did you not…?”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. His hand stilled a moment and then resumed its lazy touches. “Possibly I may not have quite cleared that up. I’m sure Molly wouldn’t – “

“We’ll discuss later,” said John. “We’re staying here, then.” He sat down beside Molly and Sherlock and fished down the back of the sofa, randomly producing a condom packet. “Fucking hell, you two look amazing like that.” He took out a condom and gestured towards Molly with it. “Just to be extra careful.”

“I’ll do that,” said Sherlock, as John ripped open the packet. He sat up carefully, releasing Molly and letting her move to John’s side, then he took the condom from John’s hand, and slid off the sofa, onto his knees between John’s legs.

Molly heard herself gasp. She had never seen anything like this before, even in the odd bits of porn she’d watched; Sherlock clearly showing off for her benefit by rolling a condom onto John with his mouth and then, as John groaned and set a hand in his curls, hollowing his cheeks and sucking John as though he was starving for it. The fact that he was still fully dressed made it seem all the more indecent. Molly shifted, aware of how wet she was: she wanted to put a hand between her own legs, but was too shy.

“Oh, Christ, that’s amazing, Sherlock,” John said, breathless, “but stop – God – stop or I’ll come now, it’s too much – “

Sherlock seemed to make a noise of discontent, but he pulled off, breathing hard, colour in his cheeks and his mouth wet. John made a sound that was almost a sob, his chest heaving.

“A minute,” he said, swallowing. Sherlock started to unbutton his shirt and then pushed it off his shoulders, then undid his flies. Molly stared, unable to look away, as he bit his lip and stroked a hand over himself. She wanted – she wanted _more_ , now. Sherlock caught her eye. He raised an eyebrow and gestured towards John; get on with it.

“Do you want me…?” she said to John.

“If you’re OK on top just -  come here – and I’m sorry if this won’t last long but, bloody hell, the two of you – “

Molly climbed over John’s knees, straddling him, arms, after a moment’s hesitation, round his neck. He surged up and kissed her, hands roaming over her  back, seeming desperate. He tasted of her, she realised with a shock, and she moaned into his mouth. John reached down between them and with a bit of manoeuvring Molly sank down onto his cock, closing her eyes at the sensation. John was hard and hot inside her and it felt wonderful; her muscles fluttered round him, already reaching for more pleasure.

“Fuck, so good,” said John, strained. “Sherlock?”

“Here.” Sherlock took Molly’s place by John’s side, and as John turned towards him he bent in at an awkward angle and kissed John, hard. Molly felt John’s response, felt his hips move, and couldn’t help pushing down in return.

Sherlock drew back a little. “Wait,” he said, and impatiently raised his hips just enough to push his trousers and boxers off and get a hand on his cock. He was biting his lip, looking at where John and Molly were joined. He looked lost in desire: Molly couldn’t take her eyes off him, his spectacular nakedness; and John was staring at him too, eyes half-lidded.

“Christ, move,” said John, and he took hold of Molly’s hips and encouraged her to set a pace, lifting herself up and then pushing down again. It felt incredible, and the way that John’s face twisted and he swore made Molly feel powerful, determined to make John fall apart, to give him back some of the pleasure he’d given her. Her own body was wound tight, every movement a jar of sensation, but she wasn’t sure she could come again like this, in this position, not quite the right angle and friction; part of her wished that John would just – roll her over on the sofa and pound into her, but then this was for Sherlock, for them. She braced herself on the back of the sofa and concentrated on setting a fierce rhythm, aware without looking over that the laser-beam of Sherlock’s attention was riveted on them.

John met her eyes, mouth open. He took a hand from her hip and slid it between them, not even touching her directly, just providing firm pressure from the side of his hand, where she most needed it. Molly heard herself make a shockingly loud noise. She forgot about her selflessness and ground down hard against John’s hand, feeling herself suddenly at a pitch of pleasure where just one more movement, two more, her face was heating, she couldn’t stop her movements… and then she was coming, hard, in a series of quick contractions around John’s cock.

“Fuck, fuck,” said John, fervently, and he thrust up as much as he could a few more times and then stilled, pulsing inside her. Molly’s arms gave out and she collapsed forward onto his chest, partly to hide her face. That had been – she couldn’t remember anything like it. She was still trembling, and so was John, his hips jolted a little and she gasped, over-sensitive. John stroked her hair and she felt him huff out a laugh.

“Christ,” he said. “I hoped we would be good together, but that….” They breathed together for a few moments.

“If you’re quite done – “ said Sherlock. He probably meant it as a sardonic drawl, but Molly thought she could hear an edge of desperation. She looked over, through her hair. Sherlock was sprawled out at the end of the sofa, touching himself lightly, but he looked tense all over. She pushed herself up and off, untangling herself from John with difficulty and ending up in between John and Sherlock, half-on Sherlock’s legs.

“What do you want?” said John across her. “I could - ”

“No time for that,” said Sherlock through his teeth. “Just touch me. Please.”

Molly wasn’t sure if that was aimed at her or John, but she was ready to risk it. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t begging _her_ , exactly, but that was definitely pleading in his voice. And she wanted to touch him, God, she wanted to. She licked the palm of her hand, bravely, reached out and ran it over the tip of his cock. Sherlock jerked.

“Yes,” he said. “Come _on_.” He took his own hands away and Molly, emboldened, touched him more confidently, hardly believing that this was Sherlock, Sherlock hard and leaking and responding to her. She caressed the skin behind his balls and he groaned loudly, arching towards her, and she had done that, she had made Sherlock sound needy and wanting.

“John,” said Sherlock, raw.

“I’m here.” John stood, stripped of the condom and discarded it carelessly, and then walked to the end of the sofa and bent down to kiss Sherlock.

“Give me your hands,” he said, and Sherlock gave him a heated look, hips rising again and again into Molly’s touch, and crossed his arms behind his head. John held them there, pinned, with one hand and then kissed Sherlock slowly, luxuriously. Molly breathed hard. Sherlock was stretched out between them, one foot on the floor and the other braced behind her, completely open in a way that she had never imagined.

John broke off and Sherlock moaned.

“Harder,” he said, and Molly sped up her pace, using both her hands. John bent to whisper something in his ear, and Sherlock screwed up his features; Molly felt him swelling under her hands, his rhythm descending into frantic pushes, and then he cried out and was coming, striping her hands with warmth, his body shaking. She held him through it, loosely, and then wrapped her arms around herself, biting her lip. John let go of Sherlock’s hands and ran a hand over his chest, soothing him. Sherlock pulled himself up slowly, arms round his knees, and John sank down beside him.

“Good?” he said.

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, getting his breath back. He shuddered. “Yes. I enjoy it more when it’s you, though.” He looked over John at Molly. “No offense.”

Oh, no,” said Molly hastily. “I mean, that’s the way it should be; John’s your, er, your boyfriend. Partner.”

“Thank you, Molly,” said John, almost formal, hugging her, one-armed. “That was fantastic.”

Molly smiled at him, shy again. Her body was still buzzing. “Umm. Thank _you_. I don’t really know what to say.” There was a pause. She wondered if she was in the way, now. It suddenly seemed a bit awkward to be on the sofa with her friends, all of them naked. Most of her clothes were half-way across the room, but her pants were on the floor. She bent down to pick them up and pulled them on, immediately feeling a little better. John didn’t comment, but he tugged her back to lean against him, kissing her hair in an absent-minded way.

“Satisfactory for all concerned,” said Sherlock, thoughtfully. There was a pause long enough for Molly seriously to wonder whether John, who had tipped his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes, was asleep, and to consider whether she ought to leave, what time it was and where she could pick up some dinner. And to have a brief internal debate as to whether she was or wasn’t going to text Clare on the way out of the door. Sherlock was staring off into space, with a slight frown on his face, so she also allowed herself to take in the sight of his naked body, at least as impressive as she’d imagined it, in case she never got to see it again.

John sighed and moved beside her, stretching and blinking. “God,” he said. “I’m starving. Anyone else hungry? Molly, I was going to order in, do you want some curry? There’s some beer in the fridge, we could see what Netflix has on offer. Sherlock has some _tidying_ to do in the bedroom so he’ll probably be busy. You could have a shower.”

“I was going to take a shower,” said Sherlock, frowning at them.

“Molly’s our guest. And you’re going to clear up that mess you made this morning right now or this evening will have been the last time you get a shag in a very long while.”

“I could just go – “ said Molly.

“I was going to ask you to take a look at some ears,” said Sherlock. “I meant to bring them in to Barts, but since you’re here…”

“Molly’s not here to _work_ ,” said John, at the same time as Molly said, “Oh, of course I’d be happy to – “

“See? She wants to,” said Sherlock, smugly. He ran a hand over his chest absent-mindedly, and when Molly looked up from following his movement he smiled at her, knowing. She felt a twinge of lust. Oh, God, what was it going to be like seeing Sherlock at work after this, now that she’d seen him all post-coital on the sofa, now that she knew what he looked like with his defences down, giving in to pleasure without reserve.

“Don’t let him exploit you, he’s shameless,” said John to her. “Anyway, you’re staying then, that’s settled, I’ll phone in the order – there should be a couple of cleanish towels in the bathroom if you want to shower.”

Molly nodded. Suddenly she did very much want to shower and use the loo; sweat cooling on her skin. She unwound herself from John’s warmth, gathered her clothes to her chest, and went to the bathroom. As she waited for the water to heat, she thought about whether John and Sherlock were talking, in the living-room. Or kissing. Well. That was their business. She looked at herself in the mirror. She seemed just the same. But she, Molly Hooper, had just had sex with two men. _Fantastic_ sex with two men. She smiled at herself, shyly, and then with more confidence.

**

The rest of the evening was surprisingly normal: Molly didn’t exactly hang out at 221B a lot, but she’d spent the odd evening there doing something for Sherlock and once or twice eating with him and John. It didn’t feel unfamiliar. John was dressed and looking completely as usual, unpacking curry from the bag, when she emerged from the bathroom, and they chatted about work and films they’d seen and debated over the best curry houses in London. If there was the odd moment when Molly caught herself staring at his hands or his mouth and thinking about what he could do with them, that was hardly surprising. Meanwhile Sherlock was doing something involving a lot of thumps and dragging sounds in the bedroom and running water in the bathroom, eventually emerging in pyjamas and dressing gown with wet, tousled hair, leaning over John’s shoulder to steal a samosa and refusing anything else.

John cleared up the plates while Molly looked at some putrefying ears with Sherlock, which shouldn’t have been fun but was, and then John announced his intention of rewatching the Avengers and dragged the TV in front of the sofa; Sherlock rolled his eyes and took his ears off for further experimentation, and Molly settled in to watch with a beer and John. She left a careful foot of space between them, but John immediately moved up so that they were touching, and when Molly finished her beer, set it down, and curled her legs up on the sofa, John put an arm around her and she tentatively rested her head on his shoulder.

John seemed like – well, like someone who liked to touch. She wasn’t sure what Sherlock would think when he came back in. She’d been asked round for - for sex, not to cuddle with his boyfriend. He might mind. But when he finally returned, as the last scene was ending, he didn’t say anything, he lounged in the doorway and watched them, thoughtfully.

“I’d better get home,” said Molly. John made a vague assenting noise, sitting up and yawning. She popped to the bathroom and then started to look around for her shoes, put them on, and then went to get her bag. John was still on the sofa, relaxed, with Sherlock in the same position in the doorway. They seemed to be doing that thing where they were communicating without words. Molly found her bag and checked the time. Lucky no-one had texted her, she’d forgotten to switch her phone off.  It was only just after 10pm.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and she paused in the act of taking her coat from the stand. “I have to finish this tonight, but – “ He looked at John, and Molly did too. John lifted his chin in a half-nod.

“We would be amenable to doing this again,” Sherlock stated.

“If you were interested,” John added.

“I – Really?” said Molly, blankly, and then felt stupid.

“Maybe in a bed next time,” said John.

Sherlock had folded his arms. “Not as a _regular_ occurrence. John is mine, and I don’t wish other people to share him. As an occasional experiment, however, I would consider this a satisfactory arrangement. Now and then.”

“No need to labour the point,” John said. “I think everyone here knows that, umm, that I’m very much taken.”

Sherlock’s face softened, and he smiled at John, a private smile full of affection. Then he narrowed his eyes and swept his gaze over Molly, reminding her that not so very long ago he’d seen her without her clothes on.

“I don’t _think_ I wish to have penetrative sex with a woman,” he said, considering. “There are other options, though. You might want to fuck me, Molly, for instance. We have – “

“Stopping right there,” said John, holding up a hand. “Too much information for now, Sherlock. Let Molly think about it. Molly, we’d be – I don’t know, honoured, if you wanted to do this again, but I understand you might not, I mean, you’re probably looking for a serious boyfriend and it’s amazing you’re single at all at the moment, so…”

Molly was still recovering from the implications of Sherlock’s suggestion. She blinked at John’s words.

“Oh, not really – I mean, I am single. Not really looking right now, so…”

“Don’t decide right now, see how you feel in the morning,” said John. He stood up and crossed the room to help her on with her coat, gentlemanly. “Are you OK to get home?”

“Yes,” said Molly. “I can get the tube, no problem.” She looked around at them both.

“Let us know,” said Sherlock, and he unpeeled himself from the doorframe and wandered off into the kitchen.

“We’ll see you soon,” said John. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, briefly. “That was great,” he said, low, and then glanced around for Sherlock.

“Good, um, you too,” said Molly, and then she left, before she could say anything more inane.

Out on the pavement she paused for a moment, to take stock. Had she actually…? She had. It was a Thursday night, and she’d shagged two gorgeous men, and now she was going home to sleep in her own bed. And she might even get to do this again. She tucked her loose hair behind her ears and smiled to herself. Then she set off for the tube, taking out her phone as she walked. She opened a message to Clare:

‘Guess what I just did? ;)’ she typed, and hit ‘send.’


End file.
